TV is on and volume set low. I am bustling for beds and bedtimestories. The Chosen One drones in and out. Ovations. Boos? Did I overhear grumbles? The dems have balls now? “…fill jobs Americans will not take” – go Brown Revolution. Personal Accounts. 2018. 2027. 2033. If he says 2046, I will take a shot, I promise myself. He doesn’t. “…ownership” – hey! I vote yes for that! “…culture of Life” -uh oh. Amendment! James Dobson in da hizzy! “…force of human freedom” – sounds sinister, if you put it that way. Saudi Arabia, Egypt: Lady Liberty is on the phone for you. “…to the Iranian people”? put on the coffee pot on ’cause we coming over. “…freedom from fear”.

Serendipitously, the bedtime poem is by S·ndor Weˆres:


Oh for far-off monkeyland,
ripe monkeybread on baobabs,
and the wind strums out monkeytunes,
from monkeywindow monkeybars.
Monkeyheroes rise and fight
in monkeyfield and monkeysquare,
And monkeysanatoriums
have monkeypatients crying there.
Monkeygirl monkeytaught
masters monkeyalphabet,
evil monkey pounds his thrawn
feet in monkeyprison yet.
Monkeymill is nearly made,
mills of monkeymayonnaise,
winningly unwinnable
winning monkeymind wins praise.
Monkeyking on monkeypole
harangues the crowd in monkeytongue,
monkeyheaven comes to some,
monkeyhell for those undone.
Macaque, gorilla, chimpanzee,
baboon, orangutan, each beast
reads his monkeynewssheet at
the end of each twilight repast.
With monkeysupper memories
the monkeyouthouse rumbles, hums,
monkeyswaddies start to march,
right turn, left turn, shoulder arms —
monkeymilitary fright
reflected in each monkeyface,
with monkeygun in monkeyfist
the monkeys’ world the world we face.

5 Replies to “SOTU”

  1. The poem disturbs me. It’s probably supposed to. But I can’t figure out why, which is also disturbing. There’s something about the rhythm, in addition to the imagery… man, that’s neat poetry.

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